


Mandy's Ginger Date

by wheres-mickey (peijou)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peijou/pseuds/wheres-mickey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy sitting next to Mickey at Iggy's wedding is definitely cute. Maybe just a little too shy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four Weddings and One Insecure Guest

**Author's Note:**

> quick note as always: I'm sorry if (m)any mistakes have escaped my notice despite my attentive readings... not being a native speaker really sucks--of course, feel free to point them out!
> 
> I really, really hope you will enjoy reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it (even if, yknow, it's mostly porn)
> 
> If you feel like it, you can drop by the comments section to share your thoughts with me, which I'd LOVE to read. I'm also [wheres-mickey](http://wheres-mickey.tumblr.com) on tumblr, come chat with me!

Mickey takes a look around, in search for something entertaining to do while he waits. Who is he kidding, though? Not himself, that's for sure. It's his third wedding and a half, and he knows from experience that nothing ever _entertaining_ happens during those. And that's certainly not his uncle Bernie, already dead drunk in the corner, who's going to contradict him. Or Joey, on the other side of the city hall, who's giving his brother a dim, knowing look.

The ceremony hasn't even started, yet everyone looks either bored or infuriated. Maybe some of them won't even make it to the party afterwards. Mickey snorts at the thought, a snort that sounds both humorless and desperate, and grabs a beer on the counter, taking a pensive sip.

He remembers his mother holding his hand. It was a warm, large, reassuring hand, tight around his smaller one. He remembers being so confused--she was so much prettier than the bride. Here is how one of the last memories of his mother goes, which time hasn't taken away from him just yet. His other most vivid recollection of this first wedding consists of how his dad cornered him before they got to the church. He left Mickey terrified after a succession of threats, and still enough he wonders to this day how he didn't fade into the wallpaper.

The second wedding he attended also happened to be his own, with Svetlana. Lasted two years, contributed to the progressive destruction of all the Milkovich glasses and pots, and, thankfully, eventually led to the obtaining of her green card, that also signed the end of their union.

His third wedding got him a nice pink slip. In his defense, Mickey would argue his boss was the last person he expected to be invited to one of his cousins' wedding. Mickey did not notice him in the crowd before he started drinking to quench his throat, and most importantly, to drown his boredom. Did not notice him either when he picked a fight with the groom's brother, or when he started intimidating the wedding band. For the record, Mickey didn't make it to the ceremony, he got thrown out of the wedding, and out of his job (that, he would learn the next Monday) with one smooth kick up the pants.

So far, weddings have proven to be a source of problems rather than happiness, as far as Mickey's experience with them is concerned. This wedding may be Iggy's and all, a wedding stays a wedding. There's no way anything interesting, or, even more unlikely, _entertaining_ , is going to happen, and Mickey's going to have to deal with it.

With a hint of finality, Mickey nods at his half-emptied beer, at the ineluctable hungover he's going to suffer from next morning, because he knows drinking is his only way out. Good thing he hasn't got a job; no chance to be laid off this time. It's gonna be a long night still.

"Hey?"

Mickey looks up half-expecting some prick from his family, and is surprised to find a man he has never seen instead, sliding on the stool beside him. His hair is red, his skin pale but scattered with freckles, and he's got a ridiculous amount of muscles despite his slim silhouette. Enough to fuel some of Mickey's dirtiest fantasies. So yeah. Mickey's pretty positive it's the first time they meet.

He smiles uncertainly at Mickey, and Mickey hopes it's also the last if he doesn't want to do something stupid.

"Hey," he answers casually, and turns his attention back to his beer because he doesn't want to be caught staring, especially during his brother's wedding, with a room full of Milkoviches, even though a lot of them already know about his tendency to prefer (strongly) (exclusively) dick.

"I'm Mandy's friend."

"I wouldn't call Mandy my friend if she were the one to drag me to this shitshow," Mickey replies with a short laugh. He normally wouldn't, but today he finds himself expanding, maybe because of the alcohol, or maybe because it's a distraction like any other and, at least, the guy is easy on the eye. "Her date? Boyfriend? Shithead could've done much worse."

"Oh, no! Just her friend," and he looks so flustered Mickey has to bite back a smile.

"Yeah okay, whatever. I'm her brother."

The redhead suddenly looks alarmed. "I'm so sorry man, congratulations?"

Mickey frowns at him for a little while before the information is processed all the way up towards his brain. Then, he bursts out laughing. "Mandy don't only have one brother, man. We're Milkoviches, there's, like, fifty of us," he manages to say once he's settled, still shaking a little bit from the giggling fit. Tipping his bottle towards Iggy who's chatting loudly with his step-family, he adds, "I'm not the brother who's gettin' hitched, thank god. That'd be Iggy."

"Oh, sorry," the guy mumbles, visibly embarrassed that he just made a fool of himself and squirming like he doesn't know what to do with his body. There's a blush making its way up his cheeks, as he mutters "you Milkoviches all look alike", that only makes Mickey's grin grow wider.

"Yeah. Iggy and I don't have the same mother, though," Mickey says and can't keep from sending a fond look to his brother beaming with happiness. "You can tell much. He's such a soft ass. Svetlana used to say she wished she'd married him instead o' me."

"You're married?"

Mickey can discern a hint of both disappointment and surprise in his voice. He takes a sip of his beer and wiggles his empty left hand between the two of them. "Long story. But divorced. Best for us both."

Maybe there's relief in the redhead's eyes. Mickey has always been bad at reading people. "That's what my sister says. Four years ago, she got married to this guy we'd never heard about at the courthouse, without us. A hipster guy; got the guitar, the band, the beard and everything. Their marriage lasted, like, I don't know, two months? They divorced. Now she won't stop going on and on about how we must think before getting married, like we're ever going to take off like she did."

"So wait, she got married without telling anyone? That's kind of a dick move," Mickey agrees with a laugh, and the guy nods.

"Yeah, that, plus the four or five other guys she was dating at the time. She's not exactly foreign to the concept of dick moves."

"Sounds like my sister."

Red is gobsmacked. "Hey, Mandy's never had more than two boyfriends at a time."

"Two don't sound so fair either," Mickey shrugs. How could he know? They never share these kinds of details at home. The way this guy defends Mandy's honor is kind of endearing, though. She so doesn't need it; Mickey can see her grinding against a guest, next to the front door, even as they speak. Mandy's friend follows his gaze and cracks a smile at Mickey's raised eyebrows. 

"That's true, I guess," he allows, "at least I get to attend my first proper wedding thanks to her. My other sister's been with her boyfriend for a while. They're not talking about marriage or anything, but I kinda hope they will get together, you know? He seems like a keeper."

"What about you? Any weddings plans?" Mickey can't help but ask, noticing he's not wearing a wedding band either. The guy's (biteable) lips curl up into a (cute) smile and he shakes his head, like the very idea is completely crazy. Mickey nods. He takes a gulp of his beer, side-eyeing the guy next to him.

He keeps blushing and avoiding Mickey's eyes, which Mickey thinks is cute. He looks like one of those colorful pictures, behind cereal boxes, all red and white and green. His casual shirt and jeans certainly fit, and they look nothing like the tasteless suits his family is wearing. Mickey thinks he's hot, there's no denying it.

His gaydar is quite shitty, he must admit, but Mandy's _friend_ , really? That sounds pretty gay. Mandy's got  _girl_ friends, Mandy's got  _boyfriends_ , _lovers, fuck buddies,_ or whatever other label you call someone you have sex with, but Mandy certainly does not have boy friends who are only just, well, friends _._

What's the worst that could happen? Everyone already knows Mickey's got a thing for dick. It'd be a waste not to give it a shot when such a sexy, fuckable redhead comes to your rescue, saving you from a promisingly boring wedding, and boring night. The pros outright outweigh the cons.

So Mickey barely thinks before the words escape his mouth.

"So I take it you don't got a date yet?"

Before Mickey even finds the time to wince at his own lameness, the guy pops his eyes wide open, chokes in his beverage, and his whole face turns as red as his hair as he fights for air. Jackpot.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Mickey says once the redhead has regained his composure, and eyes him intently.

"Oh, yeah... yeah, sure," he stammers from embarrassment, and maybe disappointment.

Mickey rolls his eyes. If Iggy's soft, this guy is a polite, adorable, clueless fucker who definitely doesn't know how to take a hint, and who's definitely going to glue his ass to his stool until Mickey comes back from taking a piss.

He looks around. Everybody seems engrossed in a story Iggy's telling, waving his arms wildly in the room. Once he's sure the coast is clear, Mickey grabs the redhead by the arm and pulls him upstairs. _So I take it you don't got a date yet_  certainly isn't Mickey's best pick-up line, but at least it has Mandy's friend following him obediently up the stairs, where Mickey finds some unoccupied room that isn't quite a bedroom, but has a bed, so Mickey figures he's seen worse, and pushes him in.

He unbuttons his jeans while Mickey locks the door behind them. He's glad to hear they're not the firsts who took off. Some indistinct moans come from the adjacent room; thankfully vague enough so he can't identify whom exactly they're coming from.

"My name's Ian, by the way," the redhead tells Mickey while they keep the undressing procedure on.

Hands on his own fly, Mickey eyes him skeptically. "This your first time?"

"No," Ian replies, almost too quickly.

"Okay."

"Just... thought you should know my name. Since, you know, we're gonna fuck," he says, his voice a bit shaky and his cheeks definitely red.

"Okay," Mickey repeats, and adds after a millisecond of hesitation, "Mickey."

"Okay," Ian says, and a flash of smile lights up his face.

Mickey sighs. The guy seems cute. Mickey doesn't do cute. But then his eyes trail down the length of Ian's body now that he has taken his shirt off, and he decides he can make an exception. Ian's muscles are strong and defined, his skin looks smooth and perfect and his dark boxers do hold a promise that has Mickey stopping to breath for a bit.

"Alright _Ian_ ," he says once he's found the power of speech again, "now that we both introduced each other according to the book, it'd be nice to get started."

Walking the talk, Mickey lies with his face to the bed, climbs onto his knees and waits for Ian's move. He hears a shy laugh behind him. When he turns around, questioningly, he sees Ian rubbing the back of his hand against his nose, a bashful smile pulling his (still biteable) lips.

"Wha'?"

"Nothing, it's just—thank fuck you're a catcher. I don't bottom much," Ian explains lightly and Mickey has to turn his face back against the pillow because he can feel he's about to crack a smile. Shit, he shouldn't have drunk. Everything sounds so funny and adorable. Oh, and he knows he almost hasn't drunk anything, but he's gonna blame it on the beer anyway, if he has a thing for Ian. Always blame it on the beer.

He tosses the condom and the lube Ian's way. "A'ight, just get on me."

"Shouldn't I get you, you know—"

"Already did that," Mickey cuts him off. Beforehand, in his room, with some toys, when he thought he'd be out of luck during the wedding. But that, he doesn't mention. "And lemme get this straight," he asks suddenly, turning to face Ian, "you a talker in bed? 'cause we've already spent, like, twenty minutes chatting, and I'm pretty sure that's more than enough time to fuck, get dressed and enjoy the big party downstairs. So let's just get the fuckin' show on the road already."

Mickey has a mark on his waist, due to one of his latest fight, he had forgotten about, until Ian puts a hand there to keep them steady. Apparently, that mark hasn't quite healed yet because Mickey has to fight back a whine, hissing instead.

Ian notices. "Sorry!" he blurts out and puts his hand away.

"It's okay, joker. Keep going."

Mickey hears the exquisite sound of a cap opening up and the roll of a condom, and curses under his breath for forgetting to take a look at the goods first. He regrets it even more when feels a cold, but so small intruder finally pushing against his entrance. Mickey's more surprised than irritated when he realizes it's just a finger. How's prepping even fun for the guy?

"Hey, what're you doing exactly?"

"Sorry, just wanted to make sure you were ready. But you seem pretty loose already."

"Told you so."

"Yeah, sorry."

The finger is swiftly put away and Mickey's relieved as a much wider entity pushes against his hole. The boxers certainly didn't lie. He feels it rubbing in-between his ass cheeks and his own dick twitches in anticipation. No time for teasing.

"Get inside me," he grunts impatiently at Ian.

"Sorry," Ian apologizes, his voice hoarse. He puts his hand on Mickey's hip again, and the pain has the brunet shiver again. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," Ian says for the two hundredth time. Mickey grabs Ian's (true to its promise, huge) dick behind his back and guides it inside his hole.

He almost fucking _whines_ as Ian finally pushes all the way up, managing to stay silent nonetheless with much lip biting, sighs muffled against the pillow. It's been a while since Mickey has had such a huge cock filling him up, stretching him so much it burns a little.

He was afraid Ian might be very slow, considering he seems like a dumb, sweet top, but he's glad to be proven wrong. The pace is quick and effective, Ian slapping against Mickey with his body hovering over his back. It hurts a little, but it's mostly really, _really_ good.

"Does this hurt?" he hears Ian mutter shakily against his ear.

"It's good," Mickey replies, even though he normally doesn't talk during sex.

Ian sighs a little, like he's actually responding to the praise, like it gives him some kind of confidence that has him picking up the pace. Mickey can't exactly say he's not surprised. But rather than just letting this slide, because he enjoys the way it goes _a lot_ , way too much for his own good anyway, Mickey surprises himself even more when he hears his own voice, husky and hoarse, encouraging him further, "it's fucking great— _ah_ "

He arches up under Ian because of the sweet pain, and Ian pants yet another apology, like he thinks it's his goddamn fault, and changes automatically, like an attentive partner, the angle to ease the burn, hitting right into Mickey's prostate and making him fucking _cry out_.

Mickey can tell Ian's about to fucking apologize some more, so he reaches behind his back for his neck to keep him close and babbles whatever gets him to keep going. The room is at least three thousand degrees hotter and fuck if Mickey knew praising his top would spur him on. But Ian trying so badly to please him is enough to make him say things he's never said, and never thought he'd say, before.

"It's okay," he pants, "You're good, Ian, so good— keep goin', keep goin'."

"This okay?" Ian asks, his voice shakier than ever, as he slaps his hips a bit harder against Mickey's ass.

"Fuck, _yes_ , yes it is—"

"You've got a great ass, you know," Ian says, and Mickey feels his hand trailing down his waist and hips down to his thighs, nails digging into the flesh. He tenses up, a little; he's not used to be complimented in bed. Ian interprets this as a wrong step. "S-sorry," he stammers breathlessly and Ian whispering in his hear shouldn't be a fucking turn on, but Mickey's aching dick definitely tells him otherwise. He twists so he can look at Ian in the eye, his hand still wrapped around his neck, their faces so dangerously close.

"Fuck— _ah_ — fuckin' _stop_ apologizing— You make me feel so good— _ah_ —"

" _Mickey!_ "

Surprisingly, because Mickey felt so close he thought he might come untouched, Ian comes first. He closes his eyes and buries his nose between Mickey's shoulder blades, his muscles tautening above him. Mickey clenches around over his last jolts, and to his great displeasure, feels him pull out as soon as his orgasm has died out, leaving him all of a sudden empty, and surely, a little disappointed.

Before he can reach for his own erection to finish himself off, he's spun round. Ian drops to his knees and simply swallows him almost up to the base.

It's like he got kicked at the back of his head. His head rolls back in pleasure, at the feeling of the warm, wet mouth around him, and he doesn't even have time to think about holding back the heavy, borderline moaning, sigh that tumbles down his throat.

Ian's tongue swirls around his dick with so much accuracy and technique that now that he's started, Mickey just can't seem to shut up. He praises Ian to continue, doesn't want this to ever stop, because Ian happens to be just that fucking good. He feels his orgasm creeping up, fighting against the urge to rock his hips into Ian's mouth.

"You're good," Mickey babbles, "fuck, you're _so good_..."

If Ian wants to please Mickey, he's nothing if not extremely good at it. He licks at the underside, laps at the top, before sinking back down. Mickey gathers the strength to look down at Ian between his legs, because he wouldn't trust it if he didn't have another assurance that yes, this is real, Ian's a real fucking person blowing him. He's never had his dick in somebody's mouth like Ian's.

Ian's red hair contrasts beautifully with Mickey's dark pubic hair, his green eyes locked with Mickey's even as he relaxes his throat around him, his nose nuzzling his pelvis. "You're beautiful," Mickey suddenly hears himself say.

Ian hums around his dick and it's almost too fucking much for Mickey. "Fuck, _fuck_ , I'm gonna—" Hands gripping at the red hair, he tries to get Ian to pull out and away before he comes, but Ian willingly holds him in front of his face, come splashing against his cheekbone, lip and chin, and it's the filthiest, sexiest thing Mickey's ever seen. He keeps stroking Mickey with his hands all the way through his orgasm, until the over-sensitiveness of his cock makes Mickey wince.

Mickey falls back against the sheets, struggling to catch his breath and get his heart to slow down. There's no way it's Red's first time. Ian tosses the condom in the trash, in the corner, wipes a tissue over his face and comes lying next to him on the bed.

After a while, he leans over to kiss Mickey.

Mickey's so shocked he barely register what's happening. Ian's already got his tongue inside his mouth, his kisses soft but deep as hell, when he pulls out slightly.

"Excuse you?"

"No."

Mickey looks at Ian in disbelieve. But then, he decides, sexual confidence looks good on him. "Alright, whatever," he finally gives in after a brief staring contest. He can't win against the Puppy Eyes. Bets no one can. He strokes his thumb against Ian's cheek to get rid of the come still gathered there. Eyebrows raised, he hopes his (he knows that's how it must look like) fond look isn't an instant give away of how Ian's soft touch makes his bones feel like they're made out of cotton.

Ian grins against his lips and takes this answer as it is, an approval to get back at sucking the every bits of Mickey's mouth he can reach. Mickey doesn't complain. He doesn't want to push his luck either; it's his first successful wedding after all.


	2. Zero Oxygen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy sets the computer next to her so she can look at her brother in the eye. "Mickey. Shit, I'd never have guessed. Do you get off on compliments? You don't strike me as the type. But then, they say never judge a book by its cover..."

"Hey, what's this whole thing about, Mick?"

"What thing?"

When he doesn't get an answer, Mickey allows himself to let out one loud burp and tosses the bag of french fries on the coffee table with maximum effort, rolling back to his previous position, curled on the floor, with a grunt.

Damn, he's been eating too much--again. Mandy shows up after her shift, bringing in a fifty dollar worth order (understand: leftovers) from the diner she works in, the one that makes her wear that stupid squirrel hat Mickey knows he shouldn't enjoy so much, and he knows he's going without food for the next two weeks--at _least_. But then, who is he to turn down free food?

A sudden, surprised chuckle serves as a delayed reply. Mickey looks up from his greasy hands rubbing at his jeans, and twists to glare at his sister, eyebrows knitted in question. Sprawled across the couch above him, she's smirking at something on the computer in her lap, something he can't see. Her face soon splits into a wide grin.

"Shit, it got better," she breathes, eyes glued to the screen, scrolling down with apparent delight.

An alarm goes on on the back of Mickey's head; the kind that instinctively warns you that something is off without giving any useful detail about what to worry precisely. Lending his personal computer to his sister should be enough of a hint, but for a moment, Mickey gives in; he thinks he's so full he can't bring himself to care. Mandy always finds something to make fun of; and so does Mickey when he's at hers. That's how it works, let's be fair-play.

When another chuckle follows the first one, though, and one of Mandy's eyebrows arches up, inquisitive and cocky and mildly scary, he can't help but react.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Mandy?"

"'How to be nice'," she simply replies--Mickey chokes.

She turns a pair of wide, amused eyes towards him. "You know what this is about?"

Oh, Mickey knows alright. And, fun fact: as embarrassing as it was to type, this is going to be mortifying to hear formulated out loud. Bonus point for it being read by his own sister.

Mandy knows that, but of course, Mandy being a Milkovich, cares little about sparing a relative.

Mickey can't blame her, not really. It's nice being on the other end of the shaming.

"Then there's the trilogy; 'How to compliment', 'How to give someone a compliment', 'How to give someone a compliment without being creepy'," she lists on with a disbelieving snort. " _Not to forget_ my personal favorites," she mimics a drum roll before opening her hands, announcing, "'How to talk during sex', and last but not least, 'Sex and compliments'!"

Letting out the breath he had unconsciously been holding, Mickey manages to be a little outraged in his despair. Like, _come on_. He's been living a respectful life of careful hiding and lies, clearing up his internet history meticulously after him, only saving his porn on his hard-drive (hidden somewhere near the circuit breaker, if you must know) without leaving as much as a trace. Even after coming out, he has made sure not to ever rub his sexuality on his siblings, or anyone's really, faces.

And the one day something slips off his mind, his baby sister has to come through it. Classic.

He turns the nearly death experience into a simple hiccup (doesn't matter that he has to pretend he's got hiccup until she finally clears off), anyway Mandy appears too engrossed in what she has found in her brother's browser to notice, chattering and cackling like a loud laying hen.

If his sister won't, the gods do spare him (although keeping him alive because they crave some distraction, up there on the Olympus, seems more likely) and he suffers the very last of his sister's torture thoroughly. After what feels like an eternity, she smiles innocently, waiting for an explanation Mickey is in no way ready to provide her with.

 _Yeah, so I slept with your ginger date at Iggy's wedding and it was really awesome, the best one-night stand I ever had kind of awesome, but trust me, he got better the more I told him how good he was. So naturally I got curious and looked up for more info_.

Yeah. No _fucking_ way he's sharing that with his sister. Not the wedding part, not the stealing date part, and certainly _not_ the praising part.

All he comes up with instead is, "it's not what you think," which, doesn't sound suspicious at all, right.

Mandy's grin only grows wider but the way the screws her nose up, her head cocked, betrays the question mark in her eyes. The situation is whole new level or surrealism, at least for Mickey's standards.

And surrealist is a fucking nice way to put it. His sister just found the most embarrassing things Mickey has ever googled in his whole entire existence. Maybe it's even worse than finding his porn, he thinks, then ponders and thinks better of it, because he's been watching some twisted porn back in the days.

Mandy sets the computer next to her so she can look at her brother in the eye. "Mickey. Shit, I'd never have guessed. Do you get off on compliments? You don't strike me as the type. But then, they say never judge a book by its cover, and you're my brother so I try not to think about what you do with your di—"

"Stop that," Mickey growls, too full to do anything but lie on the floor, a scowl on his face. And just like that, his lying skills kick in. Survival instinct. He's always been good with lies, anyway. "Maggie's birthday's coming up and Iggy said he wanted to do something nice for her. And we, Milkoviches, aren't exactly known for our flowery language, right? So I suggested complimenting her. Girls like compliments, right?"

Iggy did ask, except Mickey may or may not have told him the marriage was his goddamn idea and it was up to him to cope now.

Mandy raises one eyebrow. "Who doesn't like a compliment, dickhead?"

Even Mickey has to admit Ian's comment about his ass didn't exactly leave him cold. It's nearly been a month, but he still thinks about it every now and then. He even briefly tried to look at it once, through the mirror. Okay, maybe twice. He saw nothing special anyway. Ian was probably just trying to be nice.

He nods, and gestures towards the screen. "Right, that's what I said. Iggy—that dickhead—wouldn't look up on his own computer because he didn't want Maggie to find it—something about shit that has to be deleted seven times before it's actually really cleared up." He shrugs. "Then he got a bit carried away."

Mandy wrinkles her nose, disappointed and confused and disgusted and maybe a few other things too. Mickey may feel guilty and filthy for a spot second, until he remembers it's his goddamn life and he can live it the way he wants, be it lie to his sister when she starts prying, or be fucked from behind by some packed, insecure redhead model who likes to know it when he's doing good.

"Iggy," Mickey provides helpfully at Mandy's wince. "And what I do with my dick is my business, by the way."

She makes a loop-sided smile, shrugging. Redirecting her attention to the computer, she puts it back in her lap and wiggles vacant fingers on the keybord, her eye scanning the tabs. "Anyway, that's gross," she finally declares, pushing the computer off her lap onto the coffee table for good. Mickey shrugs and gets laboriously on his feet, dragging them all the way to the trash, tossing their meal in there. He might explode.

"Weren't you supposed to be off somewhere?"

"Yeah, tell me about it." She checks her phone before getting back on her feet too. She heads towards the bathroom while her brother does a pity-poor job at cleaning the remaining nasty fries that have fallen on the floor. "Olivia's coming by. Normally she should've been here a while ago, but I'll say maybe in half an hour?"

That has Mickey ticking. "Wait, you gave your friend _my_ address?" Mandy should know he has a strict policy regarding privacy, that he somehow expects her to follow.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, we're not staying," she replies from the bathroom, where she's most likely fixing her make-up. She pokes her head out. "We're heading to a gay club afterwards, you comin' with?"

The responding scoff is so violent Mickey nearly chokes.

"Thought much," Mandy mumbles, rolling her eyes and poking her head back in. "Dancing without guys going all grabby on you is fun, every once in a while, and all that stuff."

It takes one hour for Mandy's friend to finally show up. Wild curly hair all over the place, beautiful dark skin and a huge smile that is so infectious that the urge to throw them out isn't so heavy after all.

Soon, they're lying in circle, passing a bottle of Jack back and forth, radio on, Mandy and Mickey heaps of laughter as Olivia is going on and on passionately about the last guy she hooked up with, "he was so sweet," she is saying, "but also, so damn stupid. He kept trying to get me in this—this sect. Uh, what was it again?"

"The Purifyers!" Mandy chimes in, and Olivia bursts out laughing, a warm, comfortable laugh, so comfortable Mickey just wants to drape himself in it and sleep with a goofy smile on his face.

"That's it, the Purifyers! Shit..."

"What's with them?" Mickey asks, intrigued despite himself, hijacking the bottle to take a gulp.

"Wasn't it something about germs?"

"I don't remember exactly, to be honest," Olivia admits, "but he had this— _timer_ thing that would ring if he stayed too long outside. He offered one to me, too—hey, don't laugh," she tells Mandy who has started deflating like a balloon, "I made ten bucks out of it on sale and return. One day the thing rang during our date and he got called by his spiritual leader..."

"Spiritual leader?" ask the siblings in disbelieving unison.

She nods, a knowing expression on her face. "… and Mark dumped me there, my vag in my hand, because he was not allowed to stay longer by this spiritual leader. Can't get blamed for cheating on him that night."

"Rude, girl," Mandy comments and Mickey rolls his eyes.

"Yeah 'cause you're such a model of faithfulness yourself, aren't you," he mutters.

"Easy to say for someone who hasn't gotten laid in months," Mandy snaps and takes one great gulp (Mickey doesn't respond anything to that, but _oh God_ he grins), grimacing as the alcohol goes down her throat. Olivia buries her head in her hands for a second, like people do when they are trying to catch something on the tip of their tongue. When Mandy taps her shoulder with base of the bottle, she jerks her head up, "Oxygen!", she exclaims, "I remember now! Their thing—it's about oxygen!"

"Oxygen?"

"I think it is, you cannot stay out for too long, so as to preserve other people's oxygen. Like, you don't want to spoil other people's air with your CO2 or some shit. Hence the Purifyers."

Mandy is holding her ribs, having troubles to breathe.

"Damn, some people really are twisted," Mickey comments with raised eyebrows. Then, pointing at the two laughing girls in front of him, "No wonder why you two got together. You both know all the right people."

"What's that suppo—" Mandy starts arguing, only for the bell to cut her off.

The siblings share a look, both surprised.

 _You invited someone else here_ , Mickey's eyebrows ask his sister.

 _No_ , she mouths as she shakes her head the slightest bit, looking earnest.

Someone clears their throat beside them and, frowning, the siblings both turn towards Olivia. "Maybe it's time for you guys to be purified too?"

There's a beat. Then the bell rings again.

"You must be shitting me," Mickey says.

Olivia shrugs and smiles, raising two peaceful hands mid-air, and suddenly all Mickey wants is to punch that smile off her face. Except punching women has never been his thing, and truthfully, the warmth of the shared alcohol makes him agreeably tipsy, and the situation doesn't seem as bad as it should. He's having trouble keeping his face straight, anyway.

When the bell gets insistent, he gives them both an half-assed finger and stands up.

"Hey weirdo," he says, walking up to the door and reaching for the knob, "why don't you go spoil someone else's fucking oxygen?". He slams the door open at that, and him and his counterpart look at each other in perfect confusion.

There's Ian on his doorstep.

"Hi," the redhead says shyly, and looks over his shoulder, in case Mickey was talking about his invisible friend apparently.

Mickey blinks--but Ian is still there.

It abruptly dawns on Mickey how drunk, how full, and how completely not fit to be seen in that general state of mess he is. They stand there in stunned silence for a good ten seconds, during which Ian only blinks and opens and closes his mouth.

Mickey can't keep his eyes off of it.

Like. Shit. He has literally been _kissed_ by those lips.

"My friend gave me your address," they're moving and saying things, but Mickey can only ask himself, did they look that soft last time too? "and huh, I was supposed to meet up with your sister... I didn't mean to interrupt anything, I'm so sorry, this definitely isn't a good time."

They sure as hell tasted good.

"Who's that?" he hears Mandy yell from the living-room, and only then does he remember to sidestep to let Ian in. He doesn't answer his sister right away, though. Might as well enjoy a few more seconds with that one redheaded actor who stars in all of his latest wet dreams.

"No problem," he manages to breathe, almost outraged that there isn't a whole crowd cheering at the effort. "No problem at all." His brain may have grilled.

Ian's hand brushes against Mickey's upper-arm as he steps one foot in. "Thanks."

He makes a move to take it off, but Mickey gives him no time to. He grabs him by the elbow and drags him in the kitchenette, right on the left of the front door.

Because life is so damn expensive, Mickey had to take the cheapest apartment he could find, resulting in it being T-shaped. All in all, the configuration makes it impossible to see the person cooking from the living-room. It can be a little tricky at times, but right now it's a fucking blessing. Ian could literally shove him against the fridge and eat his mouth, that neither Mandy nor Olivia would notice a thing.

Ian chuckles until Mickey is done maneuvering him in.

"So what were you saying?" Mickey asks very lowly, so as not to catch the girls' attention in the living-room, who are being loud and giggly and overall unconcerned by the potential spiritual leader killing Mickey straight in his own kitchen.

"That you have one nice beauty spot here," Ian plays on, reaching for Mickey's arm again, "noticed it last time too."

Mickey follows the path of Ian's hand on his skin, light and teasing, until his fingertips hook on the sleeve of his shirt and pull at it softly. As much as Mickey wishes he could do the same thing to Ian, the redhead is wearing a leather jacket over a nice dark blue shirt that has enough of a v-neck for Mickey to see two defined collarbones covered with smooth skin poking out. But then, it's not such a bad view either.

He runs his tongue over his lips, doesn't even realize he's started biting on his bottom lip, eyes flicking over the green eyes and the pink lips and the red hair, oh _god_ , the red wet hair from the showers outside.

Ian closes the distance between them so he's barely a feet away from Mickey. He looks a little jumpy for a second, like he's expecting some kind of sign from Mickey that he's going too far, but Mickey just stares at him with a content smile, tipping his head back against the wall because the redhead is a good half-head taller than him.

Shit, Mickey's flirting. Crazier: he _enjoys_ it.

The girls are being so loud next door that it's almost like the two boys are performing in their own personal bubble of silence, of intensity. Mickey's willing to see how far Ian's daring to take this. The chance that Ian actually tries something on him seems ridiculous—but it's always worth a shot.

While Ian's right hand is slipping inside his sleeve, the other one makes its way to the side of his neck. Mickey has his against the wall, but lifts one to do the grasping-pushing thing on the collar of Ian's wet leather jacket.

"I've been thinking about you," Ian whispers, his warm puffs of oxygen hitting against Mickey's skin, and fuck if Mickey hasn't been thinking about him too, wishing they could just get in touch again, just touch again, at least once.

"Oh yeah? How?" he settles for answering, because he's a guy with some game you see, and Ian snorts and smiles and comes closer and their noses just nearly bump against each other, and it's both adorable and disgusting—the Jack is making things difficult to differentiate.

On second try, Mickey flattens himself against the wall, ready for the warmth of the kiss, a kiss he's been craving since Ian kissed him that first time before they got interrupted by the toast downstairs, and lost each other in the crowd and it's truly his first time fantasizing about a kiss, but Jesus fuck, doesn't he want it right now, because it's suddenly okay if they make-out right here and now on the worktable, as Ian's lips come closer and closer and as Mickey closes his eyes, pulls on his jacket and angles his head right, parts his lips and grasps a handful of red hair, their bodies moving togeth—

"Oh hey, Mickey, do I have to come for myself to see who that is?"

"Shit." Mickey snaps his eyes open. He slides on the wall and grabs the fridge's door, opening it desperately. The cool helping with his burning cheeks is his only hope. "A friend of yours. There's no more beer, though," he manages to shout back.

Ian isn't doing so well either. He squirms, and shit, doesn't Mickey sympathize. He's pissed too. The moment is gone, though.

Ian goes past the kitchen, and both girls cheer like the guy's fucking Brad Pitt or some shit.

"Hey Mandy, Olivia," Ian sounds out of breath. He points at his hair for all excuse, "sorry, had to run, shitty weather."

"Jesus, I can't believe you thought I'd actually bring Mark and his spiritual leaders here," Mickey hears Olivia sigh. When he makes it back, Mandy is up and running, well, as much as a small shitty apartment allows it, towards Ian, and knocks their shoulders together playfully. "You made it, buddy!"

"Yeah, I got Debbie to babysit."

Olivia joins in, grabbing her purse and Mandy's. "Good news. You need that night off, sweetie. And oh God, what are those dark circles? you need to get laid too."

Mickey barely has time to get one last proper look at Ian, that both girls are dragging him back on the doorstep. There's a millisecond during which Ian looks at him like he expects him to come with. The whole thing is a little too bitter for Mickey's taste.

"Thank you, brother, for the shelter," Mandy tells him, and Olivia winks at him.

"Yeah yeah, okay, it's whatever," he mumbles. They say a quick goodbye, and they disappear in the staircase.

Mickey lets himself sigh. The whole thing was stupid. And a little desperate, too. All in all, thank God nothing happened.

Also, better get busy before his mind wanders off too much. He still has his canvases to sort and the few commissions he received are certainly not going to sketch themselves. But, honestly, it's not so bad. Maybe he can get used to working on his own after all.

As he reaches for the knob to close the door behind him, something in the corridor makes him look up. He squints his eyes, thinking he must be hallucinating the orange flame dashing towards him, until Ian crashes against him, making them stumble inside Mickey's apartment, one of his arm reaching over to circle Mickey's waist, and Mickey goes soft as Ian kisses him on the mouth, a quick and sweet kiss that doesn't last long enough.

They look at each other for a spot second, a smile lingering on their lips, before Ian tears himself away from Mickey's arms, leaving a cherry-red, panting Mickey on his doorstep to run back to the girls screaming after him somewhere between the third and the second floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the orange flame is ian  
> ian is the orange flame
> 
> damn, I'm so sorry it took me AGES to post this sequel. An outline for the general plot has been made, but turning it into a story, with _words_ , is another story entirely, so, we'll see how it goes--that is, if you're willing to go through more of my very not very correct English (sorry about that, again)
> 
> As always, THANK YOU for reading and commenting. Maybe this story triggered some kind of reaction out of you; and that means a lot to me!


	3. Seven Dorks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey sucks at blowjobs, it’s embarrassing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm throwing a desperate call for a wonderful person willing to correct the three first chapters of this story and/or become my beta for the ones to come (as a one-chapter thing, or on a regular basis, depending on your possibilities) to make the reading process significantly more pleasant for you. If you're interested hit me up on tumblr: [wheres-mickey@tumblr](http://wheres-mickey.tumblr.com/ask) :) I'll love you forever!

“Mandy says she feels like she has no choice but to invite you,” Ian recites accordingly to, Mickey supposes, Mandy gargling beside him at the same time – after all, it’s his sister's number that showed up on his screen. “Ah, and she says it’s because otherwise you have no friends to hang out with,” a thoughtful pause, “although, I quote: 'you probably think you're better off drying like an old fish in that ugly-ass apartment of yours.'”

Mickey might not be the smartest but he’s pretty sure that’s sarcasm. Okay, he might not have _that_ many friends, but what for anyway? Friends are never around when things go south. He can take care of himself, thanks. He has been doing that for years now. And nice apartments are for show-offs.

“Fuck Mandy,” he says. “I ain’t comin’.”

“NOOO MICKEY!!!”

Mickey actually has to take the thing off his ear not to turn completely deaf at the ringing storm of disappointment – everyone in the damn bar seems to get involved and it’s like fifty grown-ass males are simultaneously shouting in his face. A lonely, sad voice speaks up in the mayhem (Mickey could bet his ass it’s Iggy's), “for fuck’s sake Mick, stop being a Dick about impersonating the Man in the Highest Castle and drag your ass over here,” leaving them all laugh in unison and Mickey speechless before his brother's unexpected spurt of culture.

“See? You sh— It’s— in —re,” Ian adds over the happy hubbub, or rather, under it.

Mickey stares at the screen, eyebrows high on his forehead. “I can’t hear a fucking thing you’re saying. And are you on fucking speaker?” he suddenly asks, suspicious.

“Wait.” Sounds of things being moved around, of people squeezing in (“sorry”, “ah, excuse me...”), fill the background on the other end of the line. Eventually, the loud discussions fade; Mickey can distinctively hear traffic. “I’m out, should be better. You still there?”

“Yeah.” It’s… strange talking to Ian over the phone. It's been two weeks since they last spoke, in Mickey's apartment with the girls. Mickey has seen him twice with Mandy since then, but it was so brief they couldn't exchange a word; let alone their phone numbers (would Mickey have had the guts to ask him for his number? _well_ , that's another question entirely). Ian sounds young and cheerful. He sounds like he's glad to talk to Mickey. Mickey decides it’s not the worse sound in the world. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“Come have fun with us?” It’s cutely arranged into a question. Mickey catches himself with a mindless smile on his face.

“With a bunch of drunk old men? Promising, but no thanks.”

“No, no no no! It’s just your siblings, Iggy’s wife and me. No drunk old men,” he promises hastily. Then, considering, “okay, maybe some drunk old men here and there--but you won’t have to interact with them I swear.”

“I need to get thi—”

“Not even that many anyway.”

Mickey sighs. “Listen, even if I wanted to – and I don’t – I still have a shit-ton of things to do here. Work things. I can’t keep postponing that shit.”

“Oh.”

And that, typically, is the sound someone would make before dropping the issue and letting a stubborn little shit (Mickey) dry its miserable old fish life off (Mickey's life) in its shithole (Mickey's shithole). Mickey’s already two weeks late for his current project – turning it tonight or tomorrow? either way it’s not going to be the end of the world. He doesn't even _want_ to say these things, he just _can't help_. He can facepalm as much as he wants, Ian’s right; he deserves to spend the night alone.

“And if I kind of want to see you?” Ian’s voice is soft in the telephone and the whole thing is honestly too adorably phrased for Mickey to ignore the indescribable wave of gratefulness that overwhelms him. Ian must be wincing on the other end, feeling like a tool, because now he’s flooding Mickey with incomprehensible, apologetic ASMR-sounding words; but Mickey, right now just as red as the southern parts of his anatomy, has to make an effort not to mumble a few words of thanks and run off bashfully.

In a lame attempt to sound completely chill though, because that’s what stubborn little shits do, Mickey holds it all back – except for the redness, but that, Ian can’t see, right. A really hot guy is (more or less, let him dream for God’s sake) asking him out. No biggie. “Where you at?”

Fifteen minutes later, Mickey is already reaching the address. Not wanting to look too eager, he lingers across the street for ten solid minutes, smoking cigarette after cigarette while praying all the atheist gods that none of his siblings will have the brilliant idea of going out and see him waiting next to the bar like a damn moron. When he decides it's been a decent amount of time, he gets into the crowded bar as discreetly as his suddenly very rigid limbs enable him to.

Ian’s red hair being by nature very easy to spot, hypnotizing even, Mickey can blindly squeeze his way towards it. The anticipation is killing every cell in his brain. He looks at peace. He's smiling and Mickey knows — he knows it because he's seen them from up close — that every happy wrinkle holds at least a dozen of freckles.

“Rapunzel’s here!”

His siblings — damn, that's right they're here too — throw him a party as soon as they see him, offering more drinks in his honor all round than they can actually afford. Mickey even hears some girl say to her friend, gauging him, “so he’s the Mickey guy?”.

Siblings and their incapacity to shut the fuck up. Rolling his eyes won’t change a thing, but that certainly won’t stop Mickey from trying.

Ian has the biggest smile hanging on his face as Mickey, defeated, slides in the seat across his. It’s as bright as the surface of the damn sun — and the air does feel significantly hotter, too. Mickey grins back minutely, looking away afterwards, slightly embarrassed with himself.

“I think this dress looks really good on you— no, that you look really good in that dress— wait, not that you don’t look good without the dress— shit, I mean, you know, this dress a nice addition to the way you look—” Mickey cracks up at his brother’s obvious distress. Iggy's not quite there yet, compliment-wise, but Maggie gives him a forgiving look all the same.

As for Mandy, she can’t seem to keep her hands to herself. She’s drooling all over Ian, and Ian appears comfortable with it. He touches her arm back, giggling like a dork over some stupid work joke. Mickey doesn’t care. Not even the slightest. He doesn’t — but like, what the fuck?

Clearing his throat maybe a little more loudly than necessary, he decides to ignore the pang of jealousy in his chest and looks away for a distraction. He finds it with Joey and Colin, busy orchestrating a grimace contest with a few other patrons. “Not the nose trick! That’s cheating!” Colin bursts out, his puffy cheeks deflating with force as Joey draws his nose back to the point of no return.

Mickey nearly jumps out of his skin as something touches him under the table. It's Ian; he moved so their knees are pressed together. Without stopping to watch and nod at Mandy, he reddens in turn. What a couple of non-functional dorks, Mickey silently sighs around the rim of the beer Colin has ordered for him. He doesn’t move his legs away.

The night goes surprisingly fast listening to all the stories everyone has to tell about their old neighborhood. Mickey is actually taken aback when Ian admits he comes from just a few blocks away. “I had to move, though, when I was around sixteen. I moved back in recently,” Ian clarifies at Mickey’s frown. That doesn’t stop Mandy from shaking her head at him. “He was in our junior high, you prick. _And_ in my class.”

Ian doesn’t have that sort of rust that characterizes people coming from the neighborhood, which makes them look grim and bleak, at least from Mickey’s perspective. Whether that detail makes Ian more or less attractive, Mickey’s not quite sure.

When it’s Mickey’s turn to talk, he reminds the table about that one time Marco Senders stole Mrs Johnson’s, their bio teacher, purse in the teacher’s room in junior high.

He feels uneasy under Ian’s attentive look. The redhead senses it--of course he does--and soothingly increases the pressure against his legs. Dammit. Mickey wants to take that adorable puppy home with him.

“Wasn’t there a dildo in that purse or some shady shit?” Mandy suddenly asks, bringing Mickey back to planet Earth and away from IAN8744 Solar System. “I remember Mrs Johnson being suspended over a dildo story. At least that's what everyone in the school was saying.”

“Excuse you, that was a vibrator,” Iggy begins, and goes straight for the defensive before Maggie’s look can finish drilling a hole on her husband’s face, “hey what, that shit was scary! I remember when the kid found the on-off button. So goddamn noisy,” he says, his eyes drifting in the vague. “Must be painful.”

“Pretty sure that feels good,” Joey volunteers.

“Of course it feels good, dumbasses,” Mandy dismisses them with a shrug. She rolls her eyes at her brothers’ concerned looks.

Mickey manages, not without great difficulty, not to make a face and to swallow back his verbal position regarding vaginas – especially his sister’s. Standing up to get a drink while his sister educate the male assembly about what is good and what isn’t for the female genitalia, he notices Ian has not been drinking a drop of alcohol ever since he got in the bar.

Making up some excuse to the bartender about having to drive back home, Mickey orders a coke for himself to match Ian’s. When he slides back into his seat, his legs find their way back between Ian’s and the redhead's grin, although it's directed towards Mandy and her grand speech, is immediate.

Objectively, they’re having a good time. The coke is fine (well, it’s unsurprisingly coke-flavored), the bar isn’t that sleazy and the loud conversations are kind of comforting. The company isn’t that bad either. More often than not, Mickey’s eyes wander to Ian and he watches him nod and smile, and he feels all bubbly inside. But something shifts in Ian’s behavior a little before everyone but him and Mickey go get their fourth drink to the bar. He’s still polite and attentive, but his eyelids start drooping. Poor guy shouldn’t have to put up with the Milkovich family for an entire night; even on a good day it’s challenging for Mickey--and he’s been growing up in their cramped surroundings.

“Let’s go,” Mickey blurts out out of the blue. The idea isn’t completely formed in his brain, which is probably what makes it exciting. “Come on, let’s go while we can!”

Ian gives Mickey a puzzled look when the dark-haired man gets up to execute his evasion plan. Mickey pulls him tentatively by the arm. After a brief hesitation, Ian makes up his mind and follows him, as Mickey is already squeezing in the crowd to get to the door. “Damn.” Very carefully, they avoid the loud Milkovich group and their drinks by pretending to be very absorbed in a group's conversation. Ian’s red hair almost get them noticed, but Colin spilling some of his beer on a patron and the chaos that ensues is their cue to dash to the exit, charging through the door directly into the street.

Mickey’s panting like a wild animal as they reach the next crossroads. Ian is following him easily, because of course Mickey had to pit himself against somebody better than him to feel even worse about his already poor athletic skills. He has to slow down, adrenaline making his heart pound so fast it makes him feel dizzy.

He realizes Ian is shaken by a laugh beside him. It quickly grows louder and uncontrollable as Mickey joins his hilarity, knocking him lightly on the sidewalk. Ian pushes him back, until they make a game out of it because of adulthood they only have the appearance apparently. The effort is not helping with Mickey's terrible capacity to wind back, and after a rough coughing fit, he settles against a wall, content with the cool night air brushing against his face. He hasn't been drinking or smoking, yet he feels just as ecstatic.

Ian knocks their shoulders together one last time before leaning on the wall next to him, a playful smile on his lips. Before he can think better of it, Mickey spins around to press his own smile against Ian’s, hands secured on each side of the redhead’s neck.

It's not even a proper kiss; still, Mickey feels it all the way down to his toes. The boldness gone, he retreats rapidly to his side on the sidewalk, incredibly embarrassed. Whether or not the blush playing on Ian’s cheeks is simply due to the poor lighting — hard to say. He’s still smiling, though, which has to be some kind of achievement.

“So err— you don’t drink?” Mickey tries lamely in order to put an end to the endless silence stretching between them as they walk side by side.

“I try not to. My drunk of a dad did set an example I’m trying not to follow,” Ian answers after a while. They leave the nice houses behind them. “I’m not saying that for you to take pity on me.”

“It’s cool, man.” Ian doesn’t have to overshare. Considering he’s from the neighborhood, such a dramatic scenario isn’t properly speaking an exception, unfortunately. “I get it.”

Visibly lost in his thoughts, Ian’s mood becomes harder to read. Protectively, Mickey scoots closer, so the material of their jackets is touching along their arms. That has Ian cracking up a smile. “Aren’t your siblings going to worry about you?”

Mickey scoffs, “like hell they will! By now, they must have forgotten I was even here to begin with,” Then, pointing at Ian, “Mandy is going to piss her pants when she’ll realize you left, though. Don’t worry,” he adds urgently at Ian’s alarmed look, “she’ll survive. Just text her.”

Ian does so immediately. His phone buzzes with the response before he can even slip it back in his pocket. “No – with seven o’s – you were the only acceptable male human left,” he reads out loud, his phone chirping with another message. “She says, ‘Thanks for coming and betraying. And by that I mean both of you.’”

Mickey smirks at that. “That’s my sis.”

They must have shared some kind of unspoken agreement at some point while walking because they are now clearly taking the path to Mickey’s apartment, and Ian is giving no sign to bolt. Mickey cannot say he’s not relieved. Spending the night alone wasn’t exactly a happy prospect. As in, strictly sleeping alone. And walking with Ian is surprisingly calming.

No sooner is the door to his apartment closed behind them, after climbing up half a dozen of floors that left them panting a little, than Ian corners him in the very place they shared their flash-kiss a couple of weeks ago. Large hands come pinning his hips against the door and Ian tilts his head, his warm breath ghosting over the base of Mickey’s neck. They don't even care to switch the lights on.

When his forehead comes resting against Mickey’s, there’s no predatory glint in his eyes. It’s sheer fondness and, Mickey’s not sure because _what a weird thing to feel for someone that isn’t family_ , affection.

Before he can give himself too much time to read into it, Mickey tilts Ian’s chin down, glancing at him through his lashes. They move in perfect sync, their body adapting to the other as their lips come crashing together. And then, the alleviation. Although Mickey knows that drogue analogy sounds pretty lame, Ian’s lips being his drug and addictive and dangerous and blah-blah-blah, in the back of his brain, it feels a little like that. He follows Ian's moves, letting himself be carried by the comfort held in these lips and in these hands keeping him anchored.

The kiss grows rapidly demanding. Ian huffs against his mouth, his tongue splitting his lips to go for his teeth. There are too many parts of Ian’s skin Mickey wants to touch for his hands to be one hundred percent articulate about it, both grazing against Ian’s chest, crumpling the fabric of his jacket under his fingers.

Mickey comes up for air, opening his eyes to see Ian staring back at him looking somewhat worried. There’s absolutely no reason to be, as far as Mickey’s concerned. Ask the after-sales department: satisfied customer right here. Ian kisses like a champ. Partly because Mickey doesn’t have much experience in kissing; mostly, render unto Ian Gallagher that which is Ian Gallagher’s, because the boy is goddamn skilled.

“You taste so good, I swear to God.” Mickey is so surprised the words _actually_ crossed his mouth, he could swear they came from someone else. Ian makes the softest noise, hiding his reddening face in the crook of Mickey’s neck while he slots one leg in between Mickey’s. This new positioning makes Ian’s erection hit right against Mickey’s inner thigh. Which could be worse.

The temperature has risen from hot to unbearably hot but Mickey still initiates a second kiss, his eyes fluttering close, which Ian welcomes with abundant lip- nipping and sucking. Heat is creeping up Mickey’s skin, and in a hasty attempt to get rid of Ian’s jacket (without giving those soft lips kissing the hell out of him the chance to go away) he fumbles frustratingly with Ian’s zipper without managing to zip it down.

Mickey can pinpoint the exact moment his bones melt completely; Ian starts smiling against his lips and covers his hands with his own large, warm palms to help him get rid of the jacket. He then gentlemanly helps him out with his own jacket, still tangled together.

Mickey does feel more than a little exposed when Ian gropes at his ass and thighs to urge him to climb and crook his legs around him so he can walk them towards the bedroom. The will to keep Ian close is so strong though, he only grumbles against Ian’s lips without actively preventing him from maneuvering him, their pelvis rutting against one another. He’s rewarded with another lip-smile – but there’s no more bones left inside of him to melt.

It’s only after falling onto the bed that they finally part, but only for a short amount of time; once their pants yanked away, lips find their way against each other again. Mickey straddles Ian’s lap, mischievously pushing him to sit against the pillow of top of his tiny single bed. Mickey mouths over the corner of his lips and jawline, while fingers distract his attention to connect freckles together along his smooth skin, muscles contracting under the touch. Ian hisses, pulling on Mickey’s hair as the man’s hands wander lower on his stomach down to his boxers, struggling to contain his hard-on.

Mickey can go lick Ian’s happy trail and go sucking at his nipple, and no one is going to walk in on them. Unlike when they met, things don’t have to be rushed.

So he does about just that, reveling in the sounds Ian is making and in the way his body is responding to the attention it’s receiving. “Mickey,” Ian all but breathes, his fingers now squeezing his arm tight, “fuck, Mickey…” Hands on his chest, he leaves a trail of soft bites on the skin before coming back up for a kiss.

The interminable teasing has Ian growing impatient and louder. And for Mickey’s guilty pleasure, more uninhibited, too. When Mickey goes for his boxer though, Ian pushes his hand away. Mickey looks up questioningly.

“I want to get you off.”

Mickey can’t say it’s something he usually objects, but right now he kind of painfully wants to be the one to see Ian falling apart. He knits his eyebrows together, squinting his eyes to try to see through Ian. It doesn't work so much. “And that’s alright, but you already did that. I want to be the one doing it now, too.”

Ian looks at Mickey uneasily. “Listen,” he finally gives in after a brief staring contest, shifting his gaze away from Mickey’s, red circles coloring his cheeks high, “I don’t want to make this about me. It’s your birthday after all and you shouldn’t have to–”

Mickey still has a hand on Ian when he bursts out laughing. Ian looks at him defensively. “Mandy told me not to tell you I knew, because you hate birthdays, but I figured since I knew, there was no reason for you not to know I already knew since I have known the moment she told me, and since I don’t have an actual present—”

“Remember what you told me about your dad? Well, my white supremacist drunk of a father walked in on me giving some guy from high school a blowjob on my sixteen’s birthday,” Mickey cuts him off, without letting go of him nonetheless. “He beat the shit out of us and kicked me out in the streets. I didn’t have a single mean to survive on my own.” It's fucking stupid to tell Ian when he's hardly even told everyone in his goddamn family, but he can’t help it. He feels like he _needs_ to get it out of his system. “This is the reason why Mandy and the others try to avoid mentioning birthdays around me.”

They just stare at each other for an unbearable amount of time. Ian is at loss as to what to say.

“This is about _me_. This is about _me_ , wanting to get _you_ off.”

Mickey backs off, feeling a little dazed. Another moment he has ruined to add to his winner’s list. Shit, he should make a profession out of it. Mickey the Ruiner.

But Ian grabs his arm. Delicately, he wraps him in an awkward hug. Mickey relents; and he's probably the first to be surprised about it.

“I’m not saying that for you to take pity on me,” he mumbles against Ian's skin halfheartedly, parroting Ian’s words from earlier. But if he’s being honest, right now he can use the contact. The sudden confessing has left him cold and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry for being a dickhead,” Ian murmurs against his ear, petting his hair softly in a way that makes Mickey want to lean into the touch.

“It was years ago,” Mickey shrugs. He pushes Ian gently, getting back to his kneeling position, and eyes Ian up expectantly. “Now, can I have your dick please?”

Ian shakes his head with a feigned offended expression. “Hey, I can’t tell you what the it is. You have to unwrap it first.”

“Lame piece of ass,” Mickey mutters, his hands working back on Ian’s boxers to get rid of them while the latter is laughing like a manic – Mickey too feels inexplicably giddy. It’s actually his first time seeing Ian’s dick in the flesh; things had gone too fast their first time to actually appreciate the view.

When Ian’s cock is finally freed from its cottoned constrains, Mickey’s mouth goes dry almost right away. The moonlight filtering through his curtains is pretty much the only source of light he can use, but hell does it not give the piece of art justice. It’s indecent in its graphic shape and size. But it’s beautiful. So much more beautiful than Mickey’s, Mickey thinks.

Since the events of his sixteen’s birthday, he has never been one to give a blowjob. He takes it more firmly in his hand and tentatively darts out his lips to lick at the slit. Ian shudders over him, his hands resting on the crown of Mickey’s head soothingly. So Mickey keeps doing that. Licking along the length, then on the top. He remembers how good it had felt when Ian had done this to him. How unbelievably warm it had felt inside his mouth.

Mickey is not sure why, but he wants Ian to feel just as good. Slowly, he wraps his lips around him until he's got the head fully inside. It's not that bad. It tastes a little weird, a little sour maybe? but it definitely is something he doesn't mind doing. Ian muffles a moan, the skin of his thighs covered with goose bumps.

At some point, unused to the bobbing he's trying to initiate, Mickey coughs around Ian; the latter pulls out, grabs Mickey’s chin to bring him back up and kisses him gently on the mouth, pressing their bodies together.

Mickey sucks at blowjobs, it’s embarrassing. He feels a little stupid, but Ian doesn't seem to mind. Well, someone give him a star-shaped medal, at least he tried. He lets himself be brought closer and twists his wrist around the cock still in his hand to make up for the poor demonstration. Ian's rocking his hips in rhythm, his eyes never leaving Mickey's unless he's coming closer, silently asking for a kiss. It's nice kissing Ian. It's soft and warm and safe.

The kissing becomes sloppier as Mickey picks up the pace. Ian has trouble keeping up with doing things, to the point where he's left breathing heavily in Mickey's mouth. And shit, isn't he trying hard not to moan. They're sharing the same air, sweat is pearling on Ian's skin and it's all kind of fucking hot, if you ask Mickey. With his free hand, he moves the sticky hair away from Ian's forehead and devours his neck, loving the feeling of Ian's crazy pulse beating under his tongue. “Fuck, Mick…” Mickey realizes not all stifled noises are Ian's, even though Mickey's dick isn’t even the one getting touched.

Ian tips his head against the wall, being messy and incoherent and adorable, arms resting on Mickey’s shoulders loosely, while Mickey sucks and kisses every bits of his neck, alternating the squeezing and the twisting in complicated patterns. He rubs a soothing hand on Ian’s tight stomach muscles. That seems to be working for Ian. He strives doubly hard when, two minutes later, Ian manages to articulate something about coming, his voice broken by half a dozen curses, until he does. One second he is barely breathing, tight like a thread, and the next his body is shaken violently and he gives in, calling Mickey’s name with a broken rasp in his voice and spilling his load in his hand.

Twenty strokes or so later and Ian’s stomach is covered with Mickey’s come.

Right now, if he weren't that tired, Mickey could write Ian's dick a poem. It was superb. He pleasured someone else and he feels fantastic. He feels happy and sated and a few unusual, but so nice, other good feelings too. _That_ , is the power contained in this proud, noble dick, and maybe Mickey could be the first apostle to this newly found religion. He, for one, sure as hell could worship the Majestic Cock.

“Damn... You didn't have to bring such a huge present.”

Mickey grins against Ian’s sweaty skin as the redhead smacks him upside the head, the gesture lacking of credibility. Ian’s hand stays in his hair where it fell, and Mickey curls a little more into him so his head is properly pressed against his chest.

When Mickey's eyelids fall over his eyes for good, there's Ian's arm around his waist and his breath hitting his skin; lulled by Ian's heartbeat, he doesn't remember caring about their promiscuity the slightest bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love cuddly!ian&mickey (๑•͈ᴗ•͈) i love it when they're all happy without necessarily being stoned/drunk
> 
> It took me forever to write this one too, but hey what's new? Thanks a lot for the kudos, comments, bookmarks and general feedback. There's nothing better than to know that somewhere, someone reads/reacts to the things you have written. Thank you!!!!! y'all have bioutifoul eyes and spirit, take care (๑•͈ᴗ•͈) ♥ (•͈ᴗ•͈๑)
> 
> come say hi! [wheres-mickey](http://wheres-mickey.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
